


Dear John Laurens

by bdiddy150 (dismalspacenoodle)



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Gen, I mean if we're being completely honest, John is dead, Letters, Philip writes to John, alex is sad, and then he's nineteen and bitter, eliza is a good egg, philip is small and innocent, this is just sad, why do i only write sad things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:36:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7951888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalspacenoodle/pseuds/bdiddy150
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know not if you thought of what you were leaving behind, but if you had considered even for a moment what you were taking, you would never have stepped off with your guns to the south. <br/>For, you did not depart to the heavens with your soul, Laurens, but with my father's as well.</p><p>--</p><p>Or: Philip writes to John. Twice. Nine years apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear John Laurens

Dear John Laurens,  
Hello. I'm not very good at starting off letters, but papa says that writing is very important. He says it's the most important thing a man can do, because anyone can hold a gun, but it takes a very special man to wield a pen.   
He also says that mama has the nicest hand writing in America. He says that's why he fell in love with her. She thinks that's funny.   
I don't know who you are. Papa only talks about you after he thinks Angie and I are asleep, and mama won't ever say anything. She just holds his hand and lets him talk.   
I found a letter, though, from you to papa, and it seems like you two are good friends.   
Today's September seventeenth, and papa hasn't said a word to any of us. He just keeps writing and writing and writing. Mama says that he misses you. Why won't you come back? Where are you, anyways?   
Mama says a ten year old shouldn't worry about such things. She says to leave it alone. But I can't imagine you would leave without telling papa where you were going. It seems like you really cared about him.   
I think I might end this here. I should soon ask mama to mail it for me.   
Best regards,  
Philip Hamilton

  
_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
Dear John Laurens,  
I'm finally nineteen. Father was nineteen when he came to America and met you, wasn't he? He had accomplished so much by the time he was my age.   
People always compare me to him, say I'm the spitting image in both brains and looks. But all I've done is attend college-- it's like comparing federalist papers to a third grade essay on tornados.   
I know you're dead. Mother told me, nine years ago when I tried to send my first letter, that you had gone far away-- too far away to post, and too far away to ever return. I was shocked, and sad, but mostly wondered why Father had kept the writings of a dead man.   
I know, now, that he loved you. That he held onto anything that might carry you on-- your words, your jacket, your paintings, but most definitely your letters.   
Speaking of letters, he has one from your father-- one he doesn't read, but will hold onto or reach for. I have never claimed innocence, and I cannot in this matter; I stole into his office one night and read it.   
Why did you do it? The war was over, you had no need to be in South Carolina; yet, you were, and it cost you your life.

Dear John Laurens,  
Hello. I'm not very good at starting off letters, but papa says that writing is very important. He says it's the most important thing a man can do, because anyone can hold a gun, but it takes a very special man to wield a pen.   
He also says that mama has the nicest hand writing in America. He says that's why he fell in love with her. She thinks that's funny.   
I don't know who you are. Papa only talks about you after he thinks Angie and I are asleep, and mama won't ever say anything. She just holds his hand and lets him talk.   
I found a letter, though, from you to papa, and it seems like you two are good friends.   
Today's September seventeenth, and papa hasn't said a word to any of us. He just keeps writing and writing and writing. Mama says that he misses you. Why won't you come back? Where are you, anyways?   
Mama says a ten year old shouldn't worry about such things. She says to leave it alone. But I can't imagine you would leave without telling papa where you were going. It seems like you really cared about him.   
I think I might end this here. I should soon ask mama to mail it for me.   
Best regards,  
Philip Hamilton

  
_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
Dear John Laurens,  
I'm finally nineteen. Father was nineteen when he came to America and met you, wasn't he? He had accomplished so much by the time he was my age.   
People always compare me to him, say I'm the spitting image in both brains and looks. But all I've done is attend college-- it's like comparing federalist papers to a third grade essay on tornados.   
I know you're dead. Mother told me, nine years ago when I tried to send my first letter, that you had gone far away-- too far away to post, and too far away to ever return. I was shocked, and sad, but mostly wondered why Father had kept the writings of a dead man.   
I know, now, that he loved you. That he held onto anything that might carry you on-- your words, your jacket, your paintings, but most definitely your letters.   
Speaking of letters, he has one from your father-- one he doesn't read, but will hold onto or reach for. I have never claimed innocence, and I cannot in this matter; I stole into his office one night and read it.   
Why did you do it? The war was over, you had no need to be in South Carolina; yet, you were, and it cost you your life. I know not if you thought of what you were leaving behind, but if you had considered even for a moment what you were taking, you would never have stepped off with your guns to the south.   
For, you did not depart to the heavens with your soul, Laurens, but with my father's as well. Most would not say a thing changed about him, you see, for he pursued his life with such rigor and intensity as before, but I am no fool, nor am I hard of hearing. Aunt Angie said much the day Mother found out about Miss Maria Reynolds, and what Father had done, but something stood out: she spoke of his recklessness, she called him an Icarus.   
I did some research, and found who Icarus was-- a man so jubilant, so high on his own freedom, he flew into the sun and burned to death. I don't believe my father is that way. If Icarus was given golden wings that were his freedom, I believe that you, Laurens, were my Father's anchor, his tie to the ground. Once you had left, the ropes were cut, and my Father flew with no direction or purpose, much like a shooting star, waiting to fly into the sun and burn up because he had nothing to make him wish to live.   
Mother says, to Aunt Angie, that Father has lost his passion, that, before you left and took something irreplaceable, he was a loving and caring man. She says that the loss of you marked the loss of love, that if made him cold and distant to even us, and I cannot disagree. Mother tries so hard to please him, to help him be human, but there is always one more paper, not enough time, too much to write. I think that if he were to stop for even a moment, he would fall apart, like a house of cards once a base card is removed.   
I think it is ironic that at this very moment I am preparing myself for a duel. You and I both will have dueled for my father, will we not? Raised a gun for a man who we love? In very different ways, of course, as I have realized over time that what you had with my father is more akin to what my mother and he shared than what Mother and Aunt Angie have. Still, I believe myself to be jealous of a dead man. He did attempt to warn you against the duel, did he not? Showed care, concern for you? I should not be wounded by the nonchalance in which he faced my declaration of what is to come, yet, here I am, green with envy over some petty concern my father may have had for you.   
I think that all of my father's love he poured into you. So why did you have to take it? Why did you die, to take all the love he had with you into whatever void you've stepped into?   
I guess I mean to ask, why could you not have returned home to him? I know that one cannot escape death, nor am I so foolish as to believe that one can foresee it, but I find myself wishing that I could see love in my father's eyes when I looked at him.   
And so I am off to shoot a gun in the name of my father's honor, but really, I'm fighting for his love.   
Will this be what brings it back?

Regardless, goodbye perhaps for the last time.   
Sincerely,  
Philip Hamilton.

e heavens with your soul, Laurens, but with my father's as well. Most would not say a thing changed about him, you see, for he pursued his life with such rigor and intensity as before, but I am no fool, nor am I hard of hearing. Aunt Angie said much the day Mother found out about Miss Maria Reynolds, and what Father had done, but something stood out: she spoke of his recklessness, she called him an Icarus.   
I did some research, and found who Icarus was-- a man so jubilant, so high on his own freedom, he flew into the sun and burned to death. I don't believe my father is that way. If Icarus was given golden wings that were his freedom, I believe that you, Laurens, were my Father's anchor, his tie to the ground. Once you had left, the ropes were cut, and my Father flew with no direction or purpose, much like a shooting star, waiting to fly into the sun and burn up because he had nothing to make him wish to live.   
Mother says, to Aunt Angie, that Father has lost his passion, that, before you left and took something irreplaceable, he was a loving and caring man. She says that the loss of you marked the loss of love, that if made him cold and distant to even us, and I cannot disagree. Mother tries so hard to please him, to help him be human, but there is always one more paper, not enough time, too much to write. I think that if he were to stop for even a moment, he would fall apart, like a house of cards once a base card is removed.   
I think it is ironic that at this very moment I am preparing myself for a duel. You and I both will have dueled for my father, will we not? Raised a gun for a man who we love? In very different ways, of course, as I have realized over time that what you had with my father is more akin to what my mother and he shared than what Mother and Aunt Angie have. Still, I believe myself to be jealous of a dead man. He did attempt to warn you against the duel, did he not? Showed care, concern for you? I should not be wounded by the nonchalance in which he faced my declaration of what is to come, yet, here I am, green with envy over some petty concern my father may have had for you.   
I think that all of my father's love he poured into you. So why did you have to take it? Why did you die, to take all the love he had with you into whatever void you've stepped into?   
I guess I mean to ask, why could you not have returned home to him? I know that one cannot escape death, nor am I so foolish as to believe that one can foresee it, but I find myself wishing that I could see love in my father's eyes when I looked at him.   
And so I am off to shoot a gun in the name of my father's honor, but really, I'm fighting for his love.   
Will this be what brings it back?

Regardless, goodbye perhaps for the last time.   
Sincerely,  
Philip Hamilton.

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write this by another work but I lost it?????? So ,,
> 
> why cant we be happy


End file.
